


if you need someone to carry on, believe me, i can

by luckjustkissedyouhello



Series: Rollercoastermoon's Whumptober 2020 Fics [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood and Injury, Gen, Gil Arroyo Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Torture, Whumptober 2020, prompt: caged, prompt: get it out, prompt: stop please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26829358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckjustkissedyouhello/pseuds/luckjustkissedyouhello
Summary: Chapter 1 Prompt: CagedChapter 2 Prompt: Stop, please. & Get It Out.Gil is forced to watch a killer abuse Malcolm. Malcolm is told he can end his pain simply by asking for Gil to take his place.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: Rollercoastermoon's Whumptober 2020 Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946800
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for the whole fic in the end note of chapter 1.

“Wakey-wakey, Nine,” a sing-song voice calls out, pulling Malcolm up towards consciousness. “We’re waiting on you. You know I don’t like that, Nine.”

“Stop calling him that,” Gil snarls, his voice unusually rough. Malcolm wonders why. But he’s having a hard time thinking. He is starting to suspect something is terribly, terribly wrong. That he should be afraid...and as he wakes, he’s more and more aware of the pain in his body. It’s… _bad_.

A finger taps on his forehead, making Malcolm flinch violently, makes his ribs protest, he groans. One tap. Two taps. A third tap. 

“I don’t think you want me to get to four, Nine,” the man threatens, casually. Gil _growls_. “Oh, I’d be quiet, Ten, if you knew what was good for, well, _Nine_ , here,” the voice isn’t sing-songy anymore, but it carries the same casual menace. He’s ‘Nine’ isn’t he? 

His eyelids are too heavy. He can’t get them open. He doesn’t think his right eye will open anyway. It’s very swollen, he thinks. Malcolm whines, low in his throat, and shakes his head, only half aware he’s arguing with a man intent on hurting him. He wants the blackness back. Where nothing hurt. Waking to pain and terror that’s slowly building in his gut as he wakes up more, remembers more, hears Gil’s voice, and knows the man is here with him, possibly hurting too...he doesn’t know why he’s scared, just that he is absolutely terrified. 

He doesn’t get a fourth tap. Instead, he gets a punch to his swollen eye that makes him cry out and open his good eye. He’s lying naked on a steel table, tied at the wrists and ankles. A strap on his head prevents him from looking around. It’s probably for the best, he thinks, though he’s not so sure why. All he can see is the ceiling above him. 

Then he remembers: the case. Eight men, abducted in pairs. Two sets of father and son, one pair of brothers, and an uncle and nephew. The pairs weren’t related to the other pairs of victims, near as the team could figure out. They can’t find a connection at all, other than, in all cases, the pair had a strong bond. The pairs were abducted together or on the same night and were missing for anywhere from three days to two weeks. The older men had few injuries, though there were some - dislocated joints in the wrists and shoulders, bruising on their fists. The younger men...they were not nearly as lucky. They all bore wounds from a stunning array of different tortures and abuses. The older of each pair were all found shot in the back of the head. Only one of the younger men was executed like that. The rest died from the injuries sustained from their torture. The bodies were not pretty to look at. 

A week ago, Malcolm couldn’t figure out what happened to that outliner, the one young man that was shot. Now, after yesterday, after he and Gil were both kidnapped, and their kidnaper told them what was to come, Malcolm knew why. 

Their captor laid everything out so simply, in the same carefree voice he used to wake Malcolm. He was testing them, to see if their ‘supposed bond’ was as complete as they claimed - Malcolm still didn’t know what that meant, thought it was an important piece of his profile. And the profile was still frustratingly hard to see... If they really cared about each other, the captor said, they’d show it now.

He’s said it was simple. And it was: he’s hurt Malcolm. The man Gil was supposed to protect. Gil was forced to watch —looking away or closing his eyes would just result in more punishment and broken fingers for Malcolm. Malcolm had two broken fingers to prove that the captor was serious. The cruelest part was that at any time, Malcolm could tell their captor to switch to hurting Gil. And if Gil agreed, if Gil offered himself up as a replacement, well...the man _said_ they would switch places. But Malcolm suspected that this is why the one younger man was shot. 

He hopes Gil has realized that too. Just in case, Malcolm vowed to himself that he will not break, will not ask for Gil to replace him. Hell, even if he didn’t fear they’d die, he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to watch Gil be hurt. He can barely handle listening to Gil react to the abuse their captor is inflicting on him. 

It’s only been a day, Malcolm thinks. It’s hard to tell in their windowless room. But he suspects it’s also hard to tell because he spent their ‘first session,’ as the man referred to it, tied with his arms above his head, hanging from a hook in the ceiling, getting punched and then struck with a thick wooden stick - Malcolm thinks it is a broom handle. Malcolm suspects it was added because he wouldn’t scream for the bastard. Most of the beating was just bruising force. Except for his ribs. And the blow that knocked him out, a final kick to the head after being dropped to the floor. 

It’s that, the fact that the room has that sickly unstable feeling to it that tells him he has a concussion, that has him unsure how much time has passed since they were abducted. Malcolm knows it is their only choice, here, their only hope - stay alive until Dani and J.T. can find them. The problem is...they’ve both seen the bodies. They know what he’s in for, at least somewhat. The killer seems to enjoy changing up how he tortures his victims...but they know he is brutal. And creative. That’s all Malcolm needs to know to know that this’ll be horrific, for him and Gil. But when he gives in, or his body gives in, Gil dies. And Malcolm _will not _let that happen.__

__Distantly, he realizes that the killer is talking. He should listen, he knows he should, any interaction they have is a chance for him to understand another bit of him, turn the monster into a man by deconstructing the monster until only the man remains. When he turns that monster into a man, he _might_ be able to save himself and Gil. If he’s in any shape to do so. Which is iffy, at this point._ _

__“—just laying there without a care in the world!” The man says, but something in his tone has gone dark, angry, and it clues Malcolm in that he needs to pay attention, be ready._ _

__There’s nothing he can do to be ready. Not strapped down as he is. He doesn’t see that the man’s picked up the stick again. He does hear it whistle through the air, he learned the sound pretty damn well yesterday, he has just enough time to flinch. He doesn’t expect the blow to land between his legs._ _

__There’s no holding back the hoarse cry that leaves his throat. Gil screams threats. The killer laughs. Malcolm gasps shallow breaths through his nose, tries to push the pain to the back of his mind. If he breaks, Gil will die, he reminds himself. The longer he holds out on screaming over injuries, the longer he can stop himself from breaking, he hopes... _prays_. _ _

__It takes a few moments, but he’s back to breathing normally by the time Gil’s done threatening the killer. Malcolm hears him banging. Gil is in a metal cage that barely has enough room to him to stand up fully or sit down in. Malcolm doesn’t need to see him to know Gil is on his feet, pounding ineffectually on the bars of the cage._ _

__Malcolm waits for a second blow. It doesn’t come. Instead, there’s the familiar feel of a stun gun pressed to the side of his neck, and Malcolm’s world fades out in an explosion of pain. He can feel his body being manipulated, boneless as his hands and legs are released and he’s rolled onto his belly on the table. He can’t move enough to even try to escape. Which is why the man stunned him._ _

__By the time he’s back to total awareness, he’s on his belly , head turned towards Gil in the cage (not an accident, Malcolm knows). Malcom’s arms are tied together above his head and his legs together at the ankles, which are also bound to the table. Malcolm wonders why he was tied down as he was if he was just going to be moved. Later, he’ll find out from Gil that their abductor had trussed him up that way to fuck with Gil. He made a casual remark to Gil about the possibility of Malcolm aspirating on his own vomit, before leaving them alone for the night in near-total darkness. All Gil could do all night was listen and hope every sound Malcolm made wasn’t a sign he was going to indeed do just that._ _

__Gil watches with large, red-rimmed eyes, as their captor moves around the room, gathering items, it sounds like. Malcolm has a two broken fingers from Gil looking away or closing his eyes. But he has three more from Gil trying to warn him, tell him what's coming next. He’s running out of fingers. And Malcolm _really_ doesn’t want to know what will happen when he does._ _

__“Look what I’ve got for you, Nine,” the man says, and holds something in front of Malcolm’s face._ _

__It’s an oversized metal fishhook. Malcolm has a horrible feeling he knows where this is going. He feels sick. Their captor laughs. A genuine, full-throated laugh. “Oh, _Nine_. You kinky little bastard. You’ve figured this out!”_ _

__“Kid?” Gil asks, his voice small. His hands are wrapped around the bars of the cage, knuckles white._ _

__Without warning, their bastard of a captor grabs Malcolm’s pinky finger on his left hand, uses his other hand to stabilize Malcolm’s, and yanks the digit back. Malcolm doesn’t quite scream, but he lets out a sound that betrays his pain. Gil’s face looks ashen. He thinks he’s causing Malcolm’s pain, not the sadist that just did the breaking._ _

__“Tell Ten what it is, Nine,” the bastard says._ _

__Malcolm, concussed, beaten, and tied to a table thinks he should’ve seen this transparent power play coming from a mile away, that this man is nothing but a garden variety control freak sadist gone terribly, _terribly_ wrong. He can’t see their captor. That hopefully means the man can’t see him, when he rolls his eyes, for Gil to see. For the first time, something close to relief or hope shines in Gil’s eyes. Malcolm doesn’t want to ruin it by telling him what’s about to happen._ _

__A hand twists into his hair and yanks his head back, no real injury caused by the motion, the threat is implicit. Malcolm tells Gil, his voice strained by the rough angle of his neck: “They’re suspension hooks. They’ll hold me up.” He says the last part as a comfort to Gil._ _

__Their captor laughs, pushing Malcolm's head away in a rough motion as he heads back to the table. “No. They won’t.” He assures them._ _

__Malcolm hears a wet plop, the sound so incongruous to what is going on that Malcolm frowns in confusion. For the first time, he realizes - his head isn’t tied down. He turns his head to look at the killer. And immediately wishes he did not._ _

__The man is standing at the table where all his torture instruments are laid out. Knives. The stick. A few truly _awful_ looking whips and floggers. None of that has Malcolm’s attention. What has his attention is the clear, gallon tub full of a dark red liquid the man has just dropped the hook into. Malcolm can just make out the shapes of a few other hooks pressed against the side._ _

__For a minute, he thinks its blood. But then the smell registers hot sauce. The hooks are soaking in hot sauce._ _

__Again, their kidnapper laughs. “It’s a mix of ghost pepper hot sauce and whiskey. I made it just for you. You look like a whiskey man, Nine.”_ _

__Malcolm watches his torturer reach in and pull out the first hook._ _

__He reminds himself, as the man comes closer:_ _

__If he breaks, Gil dies, and he dies._ _

__If his body breaks and he dies, Gil dies._ _

__He _will not_ let Gil die._ _


	2. Chapter 2

The bastard doesn’t stop until there are nine hooks in Malcolm’s back. He’s taking his time, doing this slow. The scent of the hot sauce is so strong it’s burning Gil’s nose. On the metal table, Malcolm is a trembling, crying mess. He’s mostly silent, even as he cries. All he makes are tiny hoarse cries as the hooks pierce his skin.

Gil’s not so sure how much longer he can take this. He’s not sure how much longer the kid can take it either. Gil knows Malcolm will not tell the sadistic bastard to let Gil take over being hurt, even though a large part of Gil thinks that is why that one physically tortured (because Gil knows better than anyone now, this was a kind of torture for the other victims, too) victim was shot, he just...he _needs_ Maclolm’s pain to end. Twice now, since the hooks started going in, he’s begged Malcolm to tell the bastard to stop, to let him take his place. Both times, Malcolm looked at him with too bright, pained eyes and shook his head. Malcolm stopped screaming and started the near-silent cries of pain after the second plea from Gil. 

The bastard looks over at him, keeps checking to make sure he’s standing, watching. Gil wants to put his thumbs through the bastard’s eyeballs. Not just for the pain Malcolm is going through, but for all the others he did this to as well. Well. Mostly for Malcolm, but not only for Malcolm. 

“I think he should get ten in honor of _you_ , Ten,” the sadistic bastard says, and pinches at the bottom of Malcolm’s back, almost right over his spine, and slides the tenth hook through. Malcolm makes the same hoarse, wounded animal sound. Gil tries to imagine what an eyeball popping around his thumb would feel like.

Malcolm makes a miserable sound. There’s blood on his chin - he’s bitten through his lip. Probably to keep from begging for everything to stop. That’s the kind of awful self-destructive behavior Gil’s come to know and expect from Malcolm Bright. 

“We’re coming closer to you, Ten!” The man says it like it is a treat for Gil. All it means is that Gil gets a closer look at how awful Malcolm is doing. 

Malcolm is only half a dozen feet from Gil’s metal cage when the man stops rolling the table. He walks to the wall and hits a button and a mechanical whorl sounds above Gil’s head. He looks up to see a square metal rig descending. There are thick ropes that hang down that have large carabiners attached to their ends. Gil looks away from it. It’s nasty and it’s going to be used to maim Malcolm. But Gil is more horrified by his up-close look at Malcolm. 

This close, Gil can see Malcolm better. He can see the way Malcolm’s tied hands are trembling, both of them. He can see the bruises that are lighter than the darker ones, the ones that don’t stand out on Malcolm’s pale naked body as much as the angry bruising that mottles Malcolm’s rib cage (Gil thinks he might even be able to see the swollen bumps where Maclolm’s ribs are broken, though that might be Gil’s imagination running wild). And the overlapping dried tear tracks on Malcolm's face. Shit, he can even hear the tiny, pained whimpers that are escaping Malcolm’s throat. The smell of the hot sauce is almost overwhelming, but he can smell the new and stale sweat rolling off him too. In short, it is a fucking traumatic, awful sensory experience that Gil does not want. And the killer will break more of Malcolm’s fingers, cause him even more pain if Gil tries to take a moment away from the sensory overload.

Of course, maybe that is fair that Gil can't look away. Malcolm certainly can’t turn off what’s happening to him. So Gil resolves to not cause Malcolm more pain, it's the only thing he can do right now, and watches. Watching even from only six feet away doesn't give him a lot of information about Malcolm's condition. Malcolm has an absurdly high pain tolerance and a stubborn streak a mile wide. He has to be in pain, but he's either trying to not give the sadist torturing them the satisfaction of hearing him hurt, or he's gotten it in his head to hide his pain from Gil, so Gil doesn't have to see him suffer. 

The man takes his time, jostling and moving each hook as he slides the carabiners through the eyelets at one end of the hooks. Once all ten are hooked to the rig, he goes back to the button. Gil watches it all happen silently, except for his harsh breathing. The rig starts to go up. Malcolm cries out, as the hooks start to pull at his skin. 

“No!” Malcolm shouts, chest heaving suddenly with renewed panic. “Please! Stop!” There is outright terror on Malcolm’s face, in his voice. 

Gil's heart aches a little more, just seeing that terror. Then he realizes why Malcolm is begging, why he is so scared. It’s why the man was so sure the hooks wouldn’t hold even though Malcolm assured Gil they would. 

The sadistic fucker hasn’t untied Malcolm’s hands and legs from the table. 

“Stop!” Gil screams. “Goddamnit, you sick fuck, stop!” 

The bastard laughs. “You know what to say if you want this to stop, Nine.” He doesn’t address Gil’s pleas at all. 

It’s awful to watch, but Gil can’t look away, can’t be the reason Malcolm is in even an iota more pain. Malcolm’s skin lifts in peaks around the hooks, his skin stretches to its limit. Gil expects the hooks to pull out right away. They don’t. He lifts off the table. The ropes holding him down don’t have a lot of slack in them, but it's enough for him to lift at least a foot of the table before they hold Maclolm down, Gil thinks. 

The first one to go is by his legs. Malcolm screams so loud his voice breaks. The rig keeps going up as Malcolm sobs in pain and Gil screams obscenities at the man.

“I will fucking end you for hurting him!” Gil screams.

The bastard stops the rig. Malcolm moans brokenly, his head hanging heavily between his shoulders, chest heaving from the sobs pouring out of him. Gil forces himself to keep his mouth shut - his threats could be putting Malcolm in further danger. But at least, for the moment, the rig isn't going upwards. That's something. He thinks.

The man smiles at Gil. That same smile that he had yesterday when he explained the ‘rules’ to them. And then treated Malcolm like a pinata for what felt like hours. You don’t need a degree like Malcolm’s to know the man is a complete fucking sadist. Gil’s breath freezes in his chest. A sadist smiling at you like that is never a good thing.

“Sorry, Nine, but this needs to be addressed, now, I hope you don't mind," the bastard says to Malcolm. He reaches up and pushes on Malcolm's shoulder. Malcolm swings slightly on the hooks. Lets out a pained moan. Gil can't even imagine what he feels like at the moment. "I’m not the one hurting Nine. He’s hurting himself by trying to protect _you_ , Ten. He needs to know that he can’t protect anyone in this world. That you can’t either. You’ve lied to him for so long, made him feel safe. He’s lied to himself and promised he’d return the favor and protect you at any cost, even though he’s younger, smaller than you. It’s time he knows it, once and for all. He’ll die knowing you failed to protect him and you him. After he watches you die.” It’s the most the bastard has said at one go since they woke up in this hell.

Malcolm raises up his head. His face is red, tears shine on his cheeks. He’s still sobbing, gasping for breath. But Gil knows the look on his face. 

“Malcolm, don’t,” he says, a low plea for Malcolm to not say whatever he’s about to.

“Who killed your brother?” Malcolm asks, ignoring Gil. It’s almost reassuring that he doesn’t listen to Gil. He's not in too bad of a shape if he's still ignoring Gil's requests. “Why didn’t you stop it? Were _you_ too small and weak?”

Jesus Christ. Is the kid trying to get himself killed quicker? 

The killer does not appreciate the question. He slams his fist into Malcolm’s face, opens a cut on Malcolm’s cheek. Two more punches, one to his not swollen shut eye, the other to his jaw leave Malcolm swinging violently, groaning weakly as blood drips from his mouth onto the table. All the hooks hold. Gil is surprised.

But he’s more surprised when the bastard goes around to Malcolm’s feet and takes the rope connected to his tied ankles in his hand. Malcolm again sways dangerously, as the bastard goes over and unties the one holding Malcolm’s hands to the table. The sudden lack of tension makes Malcolm bob up violently. He cries out, but the hooks hold. 

The ropes are long enough that the bastard can hold both ends in his hands as he crosses the four feet or so to Gil. He holds out both ropes. 

“I think you need to learn to control him better. You fail him every day you don’t keep him in line.”

Gil stares at the bastard, mouth open in shock. He can’t be serious. There’s cruel, there’s sadistic, but this...making Gil an acting accomplice in the methodical torture of the man Gil considers a son...it’s too horrific. Gil shakes his head. “I can’t.” The words come out soft, broken. 

“Take the ropes or I do this all again on his front next. And then his back again just to see how well his skin will hold together.” 

Gil reaches out a trembling hand to take the ropes. One slips from his hand. The bastard glares as he bends down to pick it up. 

That’s when Gil strikes. 

The bars are far enough apart that he can get his arm through. It’s all Gil needs to make the sadistic son of a bitch pay for every ounce of pain he’s caused Malcolm. He grabs the bastard's collar and smashes his face into the bars, using every iota of rage he’s got coursing through his veins and all the strength he has in him. The cruel fuck tries, weakly, to pull away. But the blow to his head is nearly incapacitating. _Nearly_. Gil won’t risk him hurting Malcolm anymore. He _can’t_.

Gil gets a good grip on the killer’s shirt with one hand, fists his other in his hair, and slams him into the metal bars once, twice more. The guy goes limp, but Gil keeps a hold on his shirt and guides him down to the floor, not wanting him to fall too far away from Gil’s reach. He’s locked in the cage, he needs to be able to find the key in his pockets. 

It is probably overkill, but Gil is not taking any risks of this man hurting Malcolm ever again. He pulls the bastard’s arms through the bars and uses the end of the rope to tie his wrists together. Gil can just stretch through the bars enough to get a hold of the other rope, and tries to pull it gently enough that he can tie the killer’s feet together too. But he’s not gentle enough.

Malcolm screams wordlessly as another hook pulls free. Gil lets go of the rope like it was on fire. He tried so hard to not hurt him. 

“Fuck! Malcolm, I’m so sorry I had to—“

“-don’t,” Malcolm says with such force that Gil stops as asked. “You had to do it. Just...Just get me down. _Please_. Get out of there, get me down and get them out. They burn, Gil.” 

“Han—“ Gil catches himself. Corrects to: “Hold on a few more moments, okay, kid?” Malcolm makes a sound that seems to be understanding, so Gil crouches down next to their fallen torturer to start searching his pockets for the key to the cage he’s locked in. 

Malcolm catches Gil’s slip up. Of course he does. Even beaten, concussed, _hanging from hooks in his god damned skin_ , Malcolm Bright is an intelligent, observant man. He asks: “Were you gonna ask me to ‘hang on’ or ‘hang in there’?” He giggles, a hysterical edge to the sound that makes Gil wince.

Gil is on the man’s last pocket, his anxiety mounting each time he comes up empty. “No. I wasn’t.” It’s a lie. “Neither.” 

Malcolm’s giggle trails off into a pained groan. Gil is almost grateful the laughter stopped. That on the verge of hysterics sound wasn’t very comforting to hear, though hearing a pained sound like that is worse. Even worse still, he comes up empty.

“Malcolm. There’s no key.” Gil slams an open hand against the bar in frustration.

“Oh. Fuck.” Malcolm's voice is quiet, sounds like he’s nearly broken, on the edge of sobbing.

The shaking is back - or it never stopped. Blood runs along his back, drips off his side onto the metal table below him. Gil counts seven hooks still in his skin. The killer seemed to want Malcolm to hang as long as possible so he distributed them fairly evenly. 

“God damn it.” Malcolm gasps out. “God fucking damn it.” 

He’s crying, silently, and it takes Gil a moment to realize why Malcolm’s blurring- he’s crying too. Big silent tears of frustration. He managed to stop the bastard from hurting Malcolm anymore, but the kid must be in an incredible amount of pain as he is. Anyone else would be unconscious. Once in a while, Malcolm’s stubbornness is a good thing. 

“Hey Gil?” Malcolm says, after a moment of the two of them staring blankly at each other. “There’s no lock on the door.”

Gil sighs. “I know. I never heard a lock engage. But that doesn’t help us if I can’t get out of the fucking cage.”

Malcolm raises his head to look at Gil pointedly. 

“No, Bright!”

Malcolm starts to swing his weight from side to side. 

“No! Malcolm!” Gil yells it desperately. But Malcolm doesn’t listen. “Stop it! Please. I’ll—I’ll figure something the fuck out!” 

“I’m not letting you starve to death in a cage.” Malcolm says, his voice is tight with pain. But stuborn. 

“I’ll—“

“Gil,” Malcolm says, strain evident in his voice now. “Please. Just pull—“ he lets out a groan of pain. “Pull the fucking ropes.”

At least it’s mercifully quick. Gil does as Malcolm asks - what else is there to do? Gil nearly throws up at the idea of hurting Malcolm more. But maybe by pulling the ropes, he helps make it easier on Malcolm. Maybe. Once he starts pulling, two hooks go, then three, then the rest, almost all at once.

Malcolm screams each time. Finally, he drops to the table with a dull, meaty thud. He stays there, silent and unmoving. Gil worries he’s unconscious. Or worse. There’s a lot of blood. Gil tries to reach out to him, but his hand falls a foot or so short. Gil’s heart is thudding so hard he can feel it in his throat. 

This whole situation, being locked in this cage while a bastard hurt Malcolm, and now, having to watch as Malcolm hurt himself to get free….it makes Gil feel so fucking powerless. He hasn’t felt this powerless since Jackie died. A sob bubbles out Gil’s throat before he can stop it - he was crying already fine, but looking at Malcolm laying there bleeding close but still out of his reach….Gil can’t breathe past the ache in his chest, can’t hold the sobs in any longer.

He’s not sure how long he’s trapped sobbing and unable to do anything. Maybe it’s only a few minutes. It’s some of the longest moments in Gil’s life. He never thought he’d be happy to hear Malcolm make a sound of pain, but when the younger man does, lifting his head slightly as he wakes up, Gil’s so relieved his knees go weak.

Malcolm doesn’t seem to give himself a lot of time to recover, he’s immediately moving to get off the table, on the side closer to Gil. Gil’s confused as to why - the door is on the other side - but then he sees the rope around Malcolm’s wrists and ankles. 

Malcolm slides to the floor, crying out in pain, when he tries to stand. Gil’s heart launches right back into his throat. It’s agony watching Malcolm try and get to his feet. His legs are trembling violently, it looks like his knees won’t lock. 

“Give yourself a minute,” Gil says, quietly. He has no reason for him to keep his eyes on Malcolm, there’s no more sadist threatening them, but Gil finds he still can’t look away. 

Malcolm makes a small, miserable sound. “Quicker we get help…” he trails off, never one to admit he’s in pain, even when he’s been beaten and tortured. 

“Okay, kid.” Gil says, hoping it sounds comforting.

Malcolm seems to decide standing is too much and crawls over to Gil. Getting an even closer look at Malcolm’s back makes Gil dizzy with rage and worry. He’s bleeding pretty heavily, though not as bad as Gil thought he would be. It is a mild comfort at best. 

He can’t even kneel up without support to hold his hands out to Gil. He leans his shoulder against the cage, lets Gil work sideways. Only when Gil sees Malcolm’s swollen fingers does he remember about them. Will Malcolm even be able to use them? 

“It’s okay,” Malcolm says, tiredly, as if reading Gil’s mind. He’s got his eyes closed as he rests his head on a cage bar. He’s still shaking pretty hard. He smells like goddamn hot sauce. 

“No, it’s not. But it will be.” Gil says. He never could lie to Malcolm. He doesn’t want to start now. 

The knot is easily enough to untie. He shuffles so he can get to Malcolm's ankles. It makes his chest ache to see the torn, bloody mess that is the kid’s back. The wounds are angry and inflamed, though Gil’s not sure if it’s from the nature of the injury or the fucking hot sauce. 

“Hey. If you need a recommendation for a very good childhood psychiatrist after all this, I know a woman.” Malcolm says. There’s a smirk in his voice, tired and shaky as it is. 

Gil huffs something that’s close to a laugh. “Maybe an adult shrink.”

“Hmm. Last adult shrink I hit it off with tried to shoot me.”

“Yeah. Good point. Stick with Gabrielle.”

Malcolm laughs. It’s a delicate sound, no longer as hysterical as the last time he laughed, so that’s an improvement. Gil gets the knot around his ankles free. Malcolm takes a few steadying breaths (not deep ones, Gil thinks he’s got a cracked rib or two), and nods, like he’s psyching himself up.

“Okay. Help me stand?” 

Gil’s not sure Malcolm means it to come out like a question. He nods all the same. “Yeah. Slowly this time.”

He gets a hold of Malcolm’s upper arm and uses it to steady him as he stands. Malcolm sways dangerously, his good eye closed tightly, his jaw clenched shut. But he doesn’t fall down. Gil hears him pulling in deep breaths through his nose.

“Okay,” Malcolm says, and uses the bars of the cage to steady himself once Gil hesitantly lets go.

Slowly, Malcolm walks towards the door, more sway in his step that Gil is comfortable seeing. It’s worse, getting this prolonged look at Malcolm’s back. The kid must be in a serious amount of pain. There’s blood running down his back, over his ass, and down his legs. Gil almost hopes that their bastard captor wakes up so he can knock him out again. 

When Malcolm tries the door handle, it opens. Gil isn’t sure who’s sigh of relief is louder. Malcolm limps through the open door and disappears out of Gil’s sight.

Gil lets his eyes close and rests his forehead against the bars of his cage. Malcolm will find the key. They’ll be able to get help.

For the first time since this nightmare began, Gil lets himself relax, just a little.

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings: broken bones, hot sauce covered suspension hooks, suspension done really, really wrong, emotional turmoil, and severe guilt that Gil isn't the one being hurt (guilt on Gil's part)


End file.
